


Do Nothing

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He attends the hanging, is silent, <i>does nothing</i>, because that is what his lord has asked of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Nothing

He left when Holmes showed his face, because Lord Blackwood asked him to. _I need them to arrest me. London needs to know who is behind these sacrifices. We will whip them into a frenzy of fear and madness._ He leaves, and does not let the events that take place bother him, because Lord Blackwood has a plan, and everything is going according to the plan. It doesn't matter that he cannot see the workings of the plan; it is enough that Blackwood does. So he waits, and doesn't act, and if he is… overly intent in watching the papers, well. There isn't anyone around to notice.

They announce his imprisonment, and he sends an anonymous, discreet note. The reply is short: _Do nothing_. He is informed of the trial, and sends a note requesting direction. _Do nothing_. The date of the hanging approaches, and he sends yet another note, in a hand that does not shake, and he does not wait up for the reply. _Do nothing_.

He attends the hanging, is silent, _does nothing_, because that is what his lord has asked. There is a plan, he thinks, but with each step, each breath, each word from the hangman's mouth, he feels his certainty slip. There is a plan, but he does not know the pieces, and he is beginning to wonder is this was ever part of the plan. Lord Blackwood speaks, _Death is only the beginning_, and Coward thinks there might be a plan after all, but he cannot see a beginning in the twitching body of a great man. Cannot see the next step to take from here, and his hands tremble as one elegant foot at last ceases tapping. His sight blurs; he cannot react here, not here. There is no one who would understand his grief; they were so very careful to never cross each other's path in public, so careful not to spark the barest hint of rumor, and now he should be grateful that no one will be watching him, but he thinks there is nothing to watch for.

The crowd is subdued; it is not often that a lord is hanged, and the blank mask he has put in place until he can reach privacy is not out of place. He is not thinking, is avoiding thinking, avoiding all thoughts like he once avoided Lord Blackwood, _but he never really avoided Henry_, and he is no more successful in avoiding his thoughts. His feet lead him astray, and he finds himself standing before Henry's rooms. His hand is on the door, and be damned if anyone has seen him; it does not _matter_ any more.

There are no lights, but the weak sunlight is enough to show him how empty the rooms are. He doesn't need light to navigate from door to desk to grand fireplace to bed. He knows these steps well. His hands trail over the curved back of a chair, _Henry's chair_, stir the dust settling heavy on the desk, _Henry's desk_, rest lightly on the heavy bedspread, and he sees _Henry, all dark eyes and angles and pale skin and radiant with power, looking at him like Coward is something special, something he wants_, and he is on his knees beside the bed, bowed over his hands, palms pressed flat to the cold floor, and his chest is heaving with harsh breaths, or maybe they are sobs, and his hands are spotted with tears. _Oh, god_, he thinks. _Henry_, and the empty rooms are the only witness to his grief.

 

*

 

He wakes slowly, confused. There are sheets that are not his, and he doesn't think he fell asleep in a bed… why would he think that? And his sleep hazed mind is unprepared for the memory that rises, of twitching shoes and black hoods. His breath turns solid in his lungs, and _it can't be true_, but it is, and he presses his forehead against his wrists and gasps into the cold air.

"Daniel."

He freezes, then sits up swiftly, sheets sliding off to pool around his waist, and there is a vision before him, a hallucination, surely, and he can only stare, afraid to touch, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe lest it disappear. It watches him, hands clasped, fingers laced over one another, and it can't be Henry, because Henry's never worn that expression. He reaches out one hand, drawn despite himself, and hesitates, millimeters away from skin. His fingers hunger for touch, and he lays them against smooth jaw, against lips, and it speaks, lips brushing his hand, "Daniel," and _it's him, it's him, oh lord, it's him_, and the world spins around him. His head drops with a gasp, one hand trembling against un-decaying skin, one hand fisting in sheets, and he is not going to fall apart now, not now.

He gathers himself with shaking breaths, quells the urge to laugh, because he knows he won't be able to stop; stifles the urge to cry, because he won't be able to stop that either; but he cannot stop himself from stroking the curve of Henry's face. "You're alive," he says, and any other time the raw relief in his voice would cause him to cringe. He doesn't ask _How?_, or _Why?_, because he doesn't need to know. It is enough that Henry is returned to him.

"What do you wish of me?" he asks, and everything is right again.


End file.
